


doesn't know release

by thesetemplebones



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Hurt d'Artagnan, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3534896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesetemplebones/pseuds/thesetemplebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'artagnan lacked skill in hiding his emotions, especially to those closest to him. So, he made no attempt to hide his despair; and it was the lack of trying that worried everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	doesn't know release

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, I'm not sure exactly what you would call this than a drabble full of angst! Because you can never have too much angst when it comes to the youngest musketeer.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it! (:

**D** 'artagnan lacked skill in hiding his emotions, especially to those closest to him. So, he made no attempt to hide his despair; and it was the lack of trying that worried everyone.

D'artagnan stumbled into the garrison, as if he had traveled miles; dark bruises marked underneath his dull brown eyes. His entire body screamed at every lift of a leg, at every breath, and he could no longer tell if the pain came from his lack of sleep _or_ from the pain in his chest. He was willing to bet it was the second option or an unevenly distribution of both.

As he lifted his head, he found his three companions at their usual table; Aramis and Porthos both looking at him with concern, while Athos, _Athos,_ glanced at him briefly and then away. To anyone who didn't know the older musketeer it would seem as though Athos did not care but to those that knew better; they would see the tension in his shoulders that practically seeped into the ground and the way he clenched his fists white; d'artagnan was concerned he may have made himself bleed by his nails.

D'artagnan paused, and inhaled deeply, as if he were preparing to meet the firing squad.

_God give me strength._

“I'm fine,” d'artagnan sighed as he sat down on the bench, beside Porthos; across from Aramis with Athos diagonal to him. He didn't look in _his_ direction. “Truly.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Aramis stared at him, “that's a relief.”

“A dead man looks better than you,” Porthos spoke from beside him. “What's going on, whelp?”

 _Whelp._ Only Porthos could make that term sound like an endearment. D'artagnan was grateful for their existence in his life; despite the pain he was suffering from it.

“Just haven't been sleeping,” d'artagnan answered, staring at his hand that laid on the table; shaking slightly.

The slight tremor did not go unnoticed and Aramis was quick to place a plate in front of him, next to a large mug of something. He knew that Aramis meant well but just looking at the plate of food before him made his stomach churn.

He pushed the plate away with the little strength that he had, his fingers brushing against the hard wood of the table.

“d'artagnan,” Aramis sighed and pushed the plate back toward him.

“I'm not hungry,” d'artagnan argued.

“ _Eat_ ,” Porthos' voice hard but not harsh. “Don't think we haven't noticed ya not eating.”

The strength that it took just for him to consume some of the food before him. He washed it down with the drink that Aramis gave him just so that he wouldn't spit it back out again. The entire time he avoided staring in _his_ direction, though he could feel his heated gaze on him.

“D'artagnan,” Captain Treville barked, “my office!”

D'artagnan rose and walked up the stairs to Treville's office, the dark cloud following after him. Athos hadn't talked to him the entire time he was at the table but he could his eyes following after him until D'artagnan closed the door.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look but said nothing; Athos relaxed his hands.

* * *

 

“Sir,” d'artagnan stood before Treville, back straight while looking anywhere but his face.

“d'artagnan,” Treville's voice stern, _paternal,_ “look at me.”

D'artagnan raised his head and looked at the older man. He could see the concern so bluntly in his eyes that there was no way to deny it. He didn't have to guess or decipher how Treville felt or what he meant.

“Are you okay?” Treville asked.

 _Okay_ , he asked. _Okay._

Not, _are you alright_ but _are you okay_? Were the questions not the same, d'artagnan wondered. If that was the case than why did asking if _you were okay_ hurt more than _alright_?

“D'artagnan?”

D'artagnan was pulled out of his thoughts and when he looked up he saw that Treville had stood from his chair and was looking at him carefully, wondering if he was going to fall over right there on the spot.

“I'm fine, sir,” D'artagnan answered. “I just haven't been sleeping lately.”

Treville watched him for a moment, d'artagnan knew that he didn't believe him but he also knew that he wasn't going to push him. He nodded, “take a day and rest, then. If anything urgent happens, I'll call upon you.”

“Thank you, sir,” d'artagnan turned to walk away before Treville called after him; making him stop and turn back around.

“You know that you have friends here,” Treville said, “if you need to talk to anyone, my door is open.”

 _You can't help me._ D'artagnan wanted to say but held his tongue, giving a nod on his way out.

He ignored the calls from Aramis and Porthos, the heated gaze from Athos, and went straight to his room. He closed the door with a force that let the others know to leave him be.

Constance had watched as d'artagnan fell apart before her eyes and she had been unable to do anything to help him. When she had tried to talk to him about it he would shake his head, _I'm fine,_ and then plant a kiss on her forehead.

She hadn't failed to notice the way that Athos had been acting either. D'artagnan and him both seemed pained to be in each other's presence, not to the same degree as Athos and Milady but still. She could tell from the frequently shared looks between Aramis and Porthos that they had noticed as well.

When Athos, Aramis and Porthos reported to duty to the palace a few days later, with no d'artagnan, she decided that she would go pay him a visit.

“d'artagnan?” Constance knocked on the door to his room, leaning her head to the side, as if she were listening for movement. “d'artagnan?”

D'artagnan sat on the floor with his back against the door, listening as Constance knocked and called for him. It was easier to keep her and the others away, to not drag him into his world of despair. It was his own doing really and he didn't want to punish anyone for something that was entirely his fault.

It's not like they could help him either.

“d'artagnan?” Constance called to him again.

This time, because he knew Constance, he moved to sit on his bed; away from the door that he knew would open at any moment because again, _it was Constance_.

Soon enough the door opened and Constance stepped in, closing the door behind her. He didn't notice when she knelt down in front of him, cupping his face between her hands, mouthing his name.

 _Oh,_ d'artagnan shook his head.

“So help me,” Constance looked at him, “if you say you're fine I _will_ slap you!”

D'artagnan let out a pathetic excuse of a laugh. _What's more pain?_ He would hardly feel the slap if she did.

“You're cold,” Constance clasped his hands in her own, rubbing them vigorously to try to warm them up. “What is going on D'artagnan?”

“I'm a masochist.”

She looked up at him, “what?”

“A person pleasured by pain-”

“I _know_ what it is,” Constance interrupted, “but what does that mean?”

D'artagnan looked down at their joined hands, “my body aches because my heart is broken and in pain. The pain in my heart has spread like a cancer throughout my body.”

Constance looked at him, not daring herself to speak.

“It is my heart that is at fault,” D'artagnan, “it is my fault.”

“D'artagnan, what are you talking about?” Constance asked.

“I am in love with Athos,” d'artagnan whispered.

 _There,_ now the truth was set free. Yet D'artagnan felt he was still shackled underneath the water and drowning.

* * *

 

Constance sat back on her heels, stunned. She had not expected that at all or more, she never expected D'artagnan to actually admit that aloud. As she looked at the young man hunched over in front of her she didn't see the joy or relief that one usually experiences when they admit their love.

There was something more.

“D'artagnan,” Constance leaned forward and grabbed his hands, “what's happened?”

“A week ago, Athos kissed me,” D'artagnan said.

“He kissed you?” Constance gasped her eyes widening.

D'artagnan nodded, “we were on a mission and we decided to take a break on our way back. We were standing underneath a tree, the horses were nearby grazing. I can't even remember,” d'artagnan shook his head, “Athos had pushed me back against the tree, the bark scratching my back and his lips were pressed against mine. He kissed me so hard that he drew blood.” D'artagnan snorted, “not that I minded.”

“And then what?” Constance asked.

“We returned here and Athos found comfort in being a drunk again,” D'artagnan said. “I don't know what I expected, honestly, it's Athos.” He looked at Constance, who was still knelt by his feet, her hands gripping his, “leave it to me to fall in love with the man who doesn't understand what love is.”

“Oh, d'artagnan,” Constance leaned foreword, touching her lips to his hands in light butterfly kisses, “ _oh, d'artagnan_.”

“So, you see, my sweet Constance,” d'artagnan said, “I am beyond your help and anyone else's.”

“D'artagnan-”

“I am on my way to falling out of love with him,” d'artagnan didn't notice that he had begun to shake, “this is my body, ridding itself of the infection.”

Constance could feel the tears building in her eyes.

“I am heart sick,” D'artagnan admitted.

“We must get you warm,” Constance said, rubbing her hands up and down his arms; she had noticed that he had become colder and had began to shake. “I will draw you a bath.”

She rose from her place and rushed from the room, flinging the door open, as she ran to Captain Treville's office. She entered without knocking, finding Treville already standing when she did. _D'artagnan,_ was all she said.

When the three other musketeers returned to the garrison, they found it to be uncomfortably silent. They could feel the tension surrounding the entire area and they all shared a look between the three of them.

“I don't like this,” Porthos mumbled.

Athos looked to the balcony, in the direction of d'artagnan's room, as if he somehow knew this involved the boy in question.

“Constance!” Aramis called, noticing the red haired woman running down the wooden steps, her hair a mess and her face worn. Constance did not even glance his way, nor did she flinch; she ran over to their usual table and began to dish something from a bowl into a cup.

“Constance?” Aramis tried again.

“CONSTANCE!”

Aramis, Porthos and Athos all looked up to the balcony to find an equally disheveled Treville standing there. He was in a white plain shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shirt was wet and _was that blood?_

Constance looked up at him, “more?”

“Bring the whole bowl,” Treville ordered.

Constance threw the cup down into the bowl before she turned and ran back up the stairs, past Treville, and to the horror and confusion of the men, into D'artagnan's room.

“What the hell is going on?” Athos' steel voice broke through, staring at Treville with a look that would make the devil himself pause.

Treville stared back just as equally hard, “stay down there! No one is to come up!”

“Is the boy alright?” Porthos, stepped forward, looking beseechingly up at the Captain.

“Stay down there,” Treville repeated and turned away from the balcony, d'artagnan's bedroom door slamming shut behind him.

“I _really_ don't like this,” Porthos looked at the other two men.

* * *

 

Aramis sat on top of the table, his foot balanced against the bench, as he twirled his hat in his hand. Porthos paced back and forth like a caged lion while Athos sat completely still behind him on the bench, his palms laid flat against the table.

“What the hell is going on between you and him?” Porthos asked, looking straight at Athos. “And so help me, you say _nothing_ , and I'll punch you!”

Athos looked at the giant of a man, not saying anything, before he looked away; down at the table where his hands occasionally twitched, letting everyone know that he was aching for a drink.

“There's no use hiding it anymore, Athos,” Aramis said, “we know something happened between you and d'artagnan. We're your friends, you can trust us.”

Before Athos could reply, d'artagnan's door opened and Constance came out, leaning against the balcony rail.

“The physician said that you know a mixture to calm nerves,” Constance looked at Aramis.

“Calm nerves?” Porthos asked.

“A few,” Aramis answered, looking up at the woman.

“One for anxiety?” Constance asked.

Aramis nodded, “how strong shall I make it?”

“Strong,” Constance said before she looked at Porthos, “can you boil water?”

Porthos nodded.

“Call when its done,” Constance turned away again, offering no news on the their young musketeer.

Aramis and Porthos set off to their duties that they were assigned to while Athos still sat stock still at the table. _He could really use a drink._

Some time later Treville appeared, Constance following not far behind.

“Sir, what is going on?” Porthos asked as he handed the boiled, hot water over to the man.

“We're taking care of one of our own,” Treville's answer was final and left no room for an explanation; he turned to walk up the stairs.

“Make a mild sleeping draft, can you do that?” Constance asked Aramis as she took his first mixture from him.

“Of course,” Aramis nodded.

“The physician said it must be mild, as to not intervene,” she held up the bowl of mixture in her hand, “with this one.”

“I understand,” Aramis squeezed her wrist.

Constance looked over at Porthos, she offered him a weak smile, “he's alive.”

Some of the tension that had collected between the three men was released and Porthos offered her a grateful nod. They did not miss the look that Constance shot at Athos, one that was both angry and pitiful.

* * *

 

“CONSTANCE!” Treville called.

Constance spun on her heels and rushed up the stairs, disappearing once again.

“What is going on?” Porthos asked Athos, his voice sharp.

“Porthos-”

“D'artagnan is being treated not just by a physician but by Constance and the Captain,” Porthos leaned on the table across from the older musketeer. “ _You will tell us_ , Athos.”

Aramis continued to make the mild sleeping draft while also giving Athos a sharp look as his own. He did not like that D'artagnan was obviously hurting enough that he needed to be taken care of and he was not going to let Athos bullshit them around.

It was some time later that Constance appeared, walking down the stairs and straight to the table. She ignored Porthos and Aramis, setting herself in front of Athos who was standing against a post.

“Do you regret it?” Constance asked, staring at him, her voice though a whisper, was cutting like a knife.

Athos stared at her for a moment. _She knew._

“Do you?” Constance took a step closer.

“Yes,” Athos answered.

Constance flinched, she curled her fingers into her skirt, “why?”

“Not for the reason you think,” Athos spoke quickly, “I regret that it happened because it _can't happen._ ”

A silent conversation happened between the two of them before she turned to look back at the other two and she could tell, by looking at them, _they knew._ She slumped her shoulders as she exhaled and sat down at the table.

“Do you need the sleeping draft now?” Aramis asked.

Constance shook her head, “I came to get some air. I'll bring it up with me when I return.”

“What happened?” Porthos asked.

“I came to visit him,” Constance said, staring down at her hands that sat on her lap, “he was cool, I rubbed his hands, trying to warm them. Then he started to ramble nonsense,” Constance shook her head and looked up at Athos, “then he told me.” Tears appeared in her eyes, she swiped them away; looking back down at her hands. “He started shaking, he became so cold. I was going to draw him a warm bath,” Constance smiled, “I went to get Treville and by the time we returned...” Constance shook her head and brought a trembling hand up to her mouth.

“Hey,” Porthos reached out a hand, placing it on her shoulder.

“He called it heart sickness,” Constance scoffed, wiping at her eyes. “Fool of a boy! He sent himself into a fit, thinking about how you two would react,” she looked between Porthos and Aramis before shooting a look at Athos, _a fit about you_ , “the physician, Treville and I have been trying to calm him since. He started to cough up blood, even bleeding from his nose.” She looked at the three men, “that's why you're not allowed to come up. You _can't_.” _You'd all send him into a fit._ She looked back over at Athos, “no matter how much he calls out for you.”

Something sparked in Athos eyes.

“We'll be here,” Aramis handed the draft over to Constance, “just call us if you have need.”

“I'll tell him that you're here,” Constance spared a look over to Athos, “he doesn't hate you, not even a little.” _He loves you, the foolish boy._

Athos felt as if he had been punched and had all the air stolen from him. Though d'artagnan was the one in bed, Athos felt the same as him. Even as hard as he tried to not hurt the young man, to protect him, he forgot to protect him from himself.

“Athos,” Aramis' soft voice reached him.

 _Would he find no release from this hell?_ Athos wondered. As long as d'artagnan suffered, he would find no release.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it!
> 
> -KT xo


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